GratitudeSchmatitude

“Quenby,” said the world-class neurosurgeon who just
happened to be on call the day I had a stroke nine days after
the birth of my daughter, Khaleesi.

Not a little numb-your-face stroke, but a subarachnoid
hemorrhage, a rare and deadly kind of bleeding stroke.

“Quenby (as I sat sobbing in his office, looking at a
completely clear scan of my brain on the big screen), did
you know that when Bill Gates was being interviewed they
asked him what the key to happiness was? This man with
so much influence and experience? Gratitude. Gratitude
was his response. We should appreciate our days, our
relationships, our time — because money comes and money
goes, things fade away, the present turns to past moment
by moment. But true, deep gratitude is the key to longevity,
and perhaps happiness.

“And I would wager to saythat you, Quenby, when you sitdown to Thanksgiving dinnerwith your family this year, willhave more to be thankful forthan anyone else at that table.”I was humbled.

I have never been a
particularly grateful type of
person.

The word gratitude startsto color our season like fake fruit in a cornucopia every fall,and I have never been a fan. Of course I was thankful (orso I thought), but it seemed so cliché, so . . . not my type ofthanks-giving — until this particular season of life swept in.

Now gratitude paints my days, for . . .

My son, Cooper, and his new found sense of humor; his
boyhood returning after life stressors had stolen his joy.

My daughter, Khaleesi, the way she feels as if she is
an extension of myself, another appendage that I would be
groping aimlessly without.

My partner, David, the strength and patience to lovingly
look upon me in the darkest of hours, and smile and find a
way to draw laughter out of an empty well. To have embraced
my son when I could not, to reassure him and give him a
sense of security as his world was unravelling. To love me and
hold me when I had no clue which way was up.

My family, the sound of my father’s footsteps walking
the hospital hallways to bring me an espresso every morning.
The pop-top keychain he brought me from the gift shop. My
mother, taking my tears to the streets, forcing me to walk off
my fear. David’s family and their parade of encouragement.

My big brother, the first voice I heard upon waking inICU, I could not see him but his voice brought me comfort.

My little sister, the yogi with all her silly new age crap thatshe would send over via text or email followed up with “I loveyou, I love you, I love you.”And then my friends, (and you all know exactly who youare), there are so many of you. I love you and one day hopeto embrace you like you embraced me. The swooping in andscooping up of my slumped over soul — again and again, dayafter day, turning my sorrows into laughter — sharing in thislong march out of the bog of disappointment.

And to the Maker, who gave me back everything I could
have lost, everything I was never truly grateful for because I
never knew how to be.

Perhaps you have been there, too.

Perhaps we all at some point need to lose our vision to
truly see again.